'And hooting at the glorious sun in Heaven,Cries out, "Where is it?"'
'And hooting at the glorious sun in Heaven,Cries out, "Where is it?"'
For truth was her attribute; the open heart, which made the brow, the eyes, the cheerful mien, the sweet, loving smile and thrilling voice, all transcripts of its pure emotions. It was this that rendered her the adorable being, which all who knew her acknowledge that she was.
"I am solicitous beyond measure that Miss Falkner should receive no false impression. Her image is before me, when I saw her first, pale in the agony of fear, bending over her dying father; by day and by night she forgot herself to attend on him. She who loves a parent so well can understand me better than any other. She, I am convinced, will form a true judgment. She will approve my perseverance, and share my doubts and fears; will she not? ask her—or am I too vain, too credulous? Is there in the whole world one creature who will join with me in my faith and my labours? You do not, Sophia; that I have long known, and the feeling of disappointment is already blunted; but it will revive, it will be barbed with a new sting, if I am deceived in my belief that Elizabeth Falkner shares my convictions, and appreciates the utility, the necessity of my endeavours. I do not desire her pity, that you give me; but at this moment I am blessed by the hope that she feels with me. I cannot tell you the good this idea does me. It spurs me to double energy in my pursuit, and it sustains me during the uncertainty that attends it: it makes me inexpressibly more anxious to clear my mother's name in her eyes; since she deigns to partake my griefs. I desire that she should hereafter share in the triumph of my success.
"My success! the word throws me ten thousand fathoms deep, from the thoughts of innocence and goodness, to those of wrongs, death, or living misery. Farewell, dearest Sophia. This letter is written at night; to-morrow, early, I set out by a fast coach to London. I shall write again, or you will see me soon. Keep Miss Falkner with you till I return, and write me a few words of encouragement."
Not a line in this letter but interested and gratified Elizabeth—and Lady Cecil saw the blush of pleasure mantle over her speaking countenance; she was half glad, half sorry—she looked on Elizabeth as she who could cure Gerard of his Quixotic devotion, by inspiring him with feelings which, while they had all the enthusiasm natural to his disposition, would detach him from his vain endeavours, and centre his views and happiness in the living instead of the dead. Lady Cecil knew that Gerard already loved her friend—he had never loved before—and the tenderness of his manner, and the admiration that lighted up his eyes whenever he looked on her, revealed the birth of passion. Elizabeth, less quick to feel, or at least more tranquil in the display of feeling, yet sympathized too warmly with him—felt too deeply interested in all he said and did, not to betray that she was touched by the divine fire that smooths the ruggedness of life, and fills with peace and smiles a darkling, stormy world. But instead of weaning Gerard from his madness, she encouraged him in it—as she well knew; for when she wrote to Gerard, she asked Elizabeth to add a few lines, and thus she wrote:
"I thank you for the confidence you repose in me, and more than that, I must express how deeply I feel for you, the more that I think that justice and truth are on your side. Whether you succeed or not, I confess that I think you are right in your endeavours—your aim is a noble and a sacred one—and, like you, I cherish the hope that it will end in the exculpation of one deeply injured—and your being rewarded for your fidelity to her memory. God bless you with all the happiness you deserve."
No subsequent letter arrived from Gerard. Lady Cecil wondered and conjectured, and expected impatiently. She and her friend could talk of nothing else. The strange fact that a traveller from America proclaimed that he had tidings of the lost one, offered a fertile field for suppositions. Had Mrs. Neville been carried across the Atlantic? How impossible was this, against her own consent! No pirate's bark was there, with a crew experienced in crime, ready to acquiesce in a deed of violence; no fortalice existed, in whose impenetrable walls she could have been immured; yet so much of strange and fearful must belong to her fate, which the imagination mourned to think of! Love, though in these days it carries on its tragedies more covertly—and kills by the slow, untold pang—by the worm in the bosom—and exerts its influence rather by teaching deceit than instigating to acts of violence, yet love reigns in the hearts of men as tyrannically and fiercely—and causes as much evil, as much ruin, and as many tears, as when, in the younger world, hecatombs were slain in his honour. In former days mortals wasted rather life than feeling, and every blow was a physical one; now the heart dies, though the body lives—and a miserable existence is dragged out, after hope and joy have ceased to adorn it; yet love is still, despite the schoolmaster and the legislator, the prime law of human life, and Alithea Neville was well fitted to inspire an ardent passion. She had a sensibility which, while it gave strength to her affections, yet diffused a certain weakness over the mechanism of her being, that made those around her tremble; she had genius which added lustre to her eye, and shed around her a fascination of manner, which no man could witness without desiring to dedicate himself to her service. She seemed the very object whom Sheridan addressed when he said—
"For friends in every age you'll meet,And lovers in the young."
"For friends in every age you'll meet,And lovers in the young."
That she should be loved to desperation could excite no wonder—but what had been the effects of this love? a distant home across the ocean—a home of privation and sorrow—the yearning for her lost children—the slow breaking of the contrite heart; a life dragged on despite the pangs of memory—or a nameless grave. Such were the conjectures caused by the letter of the American.
At length Neville returned. Each turned her eye on his face, to read the intelligence he had acquired in his speaking countenance. It was sad. "She lives and is lost," thought Lady Cecil; "He mourns her dead!" was the supposition of the single-minded Elizabeth. At first he avoided the subject of his inquiry, and his companions did not question him; till at last he suddenly exclaimed, "Do you not wish to learn something, Sophia? Have you forgotten the object of my journey?"
"Dear Gerard," replied Lady Cecil, "these walls and woods, had they a voice, could tell you that we have thought and spoken of nothing else."
"She is dead!" he answered, abruptly.
A start—an exclamation was the reply. He continued: "If there be any truth in the tale I have heard, my dear, injured mother is dead; that is, if what I have heard concern her—mean anything, or is not a mere fabrication. You shall hear all by-and-by; I will relate all I have been told. It is a sad story if it be hers, if it be a true story at all."
These disjointed expressions raised the curiosity and interest of his auditors to their height. It was evening; instead of going on with his account, he passed into the adjoining room, opened the glass door, and stepped out into the open air. It was dark, scarcely could you see the dim outline of the woods—yet, far on the horizon where sky and sea met, there was a streak of light. Sophia and Elizabeth followed to the room whence he had gone, and drew their chairs near the open window and pressed each other's hands.
"What can it all mean?" at length said Lady Cecil.
"Hush!" whispered Elizabeth—"he is here, I saw him cross the streak of light."
"True," said Gerard's voice—his person they could not distinguish, for they were in darkness; "I am here, and I will tell you now all I have heard. I will sit at your feet; give me your hand, Sophy, that I may feel that you are really present—it is too dark to see anything."
He did not ask for Elizabeth's hand, but he took it, and placing it on Lady Cecil's, gently clasped both: "I cannot see either of you—but indulge my wayward humour; so much of coarse and commonplace has been thrown on the most sacred subject in the world, that I want to bathe my soul in darkness—a darkness as profound as that which wraps my mother's fate. Now for my story."
"You know that I did not find this man, this Hoskins, at Lancaster. By his direction I sought him in London, and, after some trouble, found him. He was busy in his own affairs, and it was difficult to get at him; but, by perseverance, and asking him to dine with me at a coffee-house, I at last succeeded. He is a native of Ravenglass, a miserable town on the seashore of Cumberland, with which I am well acquainted, for it is not far from Dromore. He emigrated to America before I was born; and after various speculations, is at last settled at Boston, in some sort of trade, the exigences of which brought him over here, and he seized the opportunity to visit his family. There they were, still inhabiting the forlorn town of Ravenglass; their cottage still looking out on a dreary extent of sand, mud, and marsh; and the far mountains, which would seem to invite the miserable dwellers of the flats to shelter themselves in their green recesses, but they invite in vain.
"Hoskins found his mother, a woman nearly a hundred years of age, alive; and a widowed sister living with her, surrounded by a dozen children of all ages. He passed two days with them, and naturally recurred to the changes that had taken place in the neighbourhood. He had at one time had dealings with the steward of Dromore, and had seen my father. When he emigrated, Sir Boyvill had just married. Hoskins asked how it went on with him and his bride. It is our glorious fate to be in the mouths of the vulgar, so he heard the story of my mother's mysterious flight; and, in addition to this, he was told of my boyish wanderings, my search for my mother, and my declaration that I would give two hundred pounds to any one through whose means I should discover her fate.
"The words fell at first upon a heedless ear, but the next morning it all at once struck him that he might gain the reward, and he wrote to me; and as I was described as a wanderer without a home, he wrote also to my father. When I saw him in town, he seemed ashamed of the trouble I had taken. 'It is I who am to get the two hundred pounds,' he said, 'not you; the chance was worth wasting a little breath; but you may not think the little I have to tell worth your long journey.'
"At length I brought him to the point. At one period, a good many years ago, he was a settler in New-York, and by some chance he fell in with a man lately arrived from England, who asked his advice as to obtaining employment: he had some little money—some few hundred pounds, but he did not wish to sink it in trade or the purchase of land, but to get some situation with a tolerable salary, and keep his little capital at command. A strange way of using money and time in America! but such was the fancy of the stranger; he said he should not be easy unless he could draw out his money at any time, and emigrate at an hour's notice. This man's name was Osborne; he was shrewd, ready-witted, and good-natured, but idle, and even unprincipled. 'He did me a good turn once,' said Hoskins, 'which makes me unwilling to do him a bad one; but you cannot injure him, I think, in America. He has risen in the world since the time I mention, and has an employment under our minister at Mexico. After all, he did not tell me much, and what I learned came out in long talks by degrees, during a journey or two we took together to the West. He had been a traveller, a soldier in the East. Indies, and unlucky everywhere; and it had gone hard with him at one time in Bengal, but for the kindness of a friend. He was a gentleman far above him in station who got him out of trouble, and paid his passage to England; and afterward, when this gentleman returned himself to the island, he found Osborne in trouble again, and again he assisted him. In short, sir, it came out, that if this gentleman (Osborne would never tell his name) stood his friend, it was not for nothing this time. There was a lady to be carried off. Osborne swore he did not know who—he thought it a runaway match; but it turned out something worse, for never did girl take on so for leaving her home with a lover. I tell the story badly, for I never got the rights of it. It ended tragically—the lady died—was drowned, as well as I could make out, in some river. You know how dangerous the streams are on our coast.
"'It was the naming Cumberland and our estuaries that set me asking questions, which frightened Osborne. When he found that I was a native of that part of the world, he grew as mute as a fish, and never a word more of lady or friend did I get from him; except, as I guessed, he was well rewarded, and sent over the water out of the way; and he swore he believed that the gentleman was dead too. It was no murder—that he averred, but a sad tragic accident that might look like one; and he grew as white as a sheet if ever I tried to bring him to speak of it again. It haunted his thoughts nevertheless: and he would talk in his sleep, and dream of being hanged—and mutter about a grave dug in the sands, and there being no parson; and the dark breakers of the ocean—and horses scampering away, and the lady's wet hair—nothing regular, but such as often made me waken him; for in wild nights, such mutterings were no lullaby.
"'Now, sir, whether the lady he spoke of were your lady mother, is more than I can say; but the time and place tally. It is twelve years this summer since he came out; and it had just happened, for his heart and head were full of horrors, and he feared every vessel from Europe brought out a warrant to arrest him, or the like. He was a chicken-hearted fellow; and I have known him hide himself for a week when a packet came from Liverpool. But he got courage as time went on; when I saw him last, he had forgotten all about it; and when I jeered him about his terrors, he laughed, and said all was well, and he should not care going to England; for that the story was blown over, and neither he nor his friend even so much as suspected.
"'This, sir, is my story; and I don't think he ever told me any more, or that I can remember anything else; but such as I tell it, I can swear to it. There was a lady run off with, and she died, by fair means or foul, before she quitted the coast; and was buried, as we might bury in the far West, without bell or prayer-book. And Osborne does not know the name of the lady; but the gentleman he knew, though he has never since heard of him, and believes him to be dead. You best know whether my story is worth the two hundred pounds.'
"Such, Sophia, is the tale I heard. Such is the coarse hand and vulgar tongue that first touches the veil that conceals my mother's fate."
"It is a strange story," said Lady Cecil, shuddering.
"But, on my life, a true one," cried Neville, "as I will prove. Osborne is now at Mexico. I have inquired at the American consul's. He is expected back to Washington at the end of this summer. In a few weeks I shall embark and see this man, who now bears a creditable character, and learn if there is any foundation for Hoskins's conjectures. If there is—and can I doubt it? if my mother died as he says, I shall learn the manner of her death, and who is the murderer."
"Murderer!" echoed both his auditors.
"Yes; I cannot retract the word. Murderer in effect, if not in deed. Remember, I witnessed the act of violence which tore my mother from me. He who carried her away is, in all justice, an assassin, even if his hands be not imbrued with blood. Blood! did I say? Nay, none was shed. I know the spot; I have viewed the very scene. Our waste and desolate coast—the perilous, deceitful rivers, in one of which she perished—the very night, so tempestuous—the wild west wind bearing the tide with irresistible impetuosity up the estuaries—he seeking the solitary sands—perhaps some smuggling vessel lying in wait to carry her off unseen, unheard. To me it is as if I knew each act of the tragedy, and heard her last sigh beneath the waves breathed for me. She was dragged out by these men; buried without friend; without decent rites; her tomb the evil report her enemy raised above her; her grave the sands of that dreary shore. Oh, what wild, what miserable thoughts are these! This tale, instead of alleviating my anxious doubts, has taken the sleep out from my eyes. Images of death are for ever passing before me; I think of the murderer with a heart that pants for revenge, and of my beloved mother with such pity, such religious wo, that I would spend my life on that shore seeking her remains, so that at last I might shed my tears above them, and bear them to a more sacred spot. There is an easier way to gain both ends."
"It is a sad, but a wild and uncertain story," remarked Lady Cecil, "and not sufficiently plain, I think, to take you away from us all across the Atlantic."
"A far slighter clew would take me so far," replied Gerard, "as you well know. It is not for a traveller to Egypt to measure miles with such timidity. My dear Sophy, you would indeed think me mad if, after devoting my life to one pursuit, I were now to permit a voyage across the Atlantic to stand between me and the slightest chance of having my doubts cleared up. It is a voyage which thousands take every week for their interest or their pleasure. I do much, I think, in postponing my journey till this man returns to Washington. At first I had thought of taking my passage on the instant, and meeting him on his journey homeward from Mexico; but I might miss him. Yet I long to be on the spot, in America; for, if anything should happen to him; if he should die, and his secret die with him, how for ever after I should be stung by self-reproach!"
"But there seems to me so little foundation," Lady Cecil began. Neville made an impatient gesture, exclaiming, "Are you not unreasonable, Sophy? my father has made a complete convert of you."
Elizabeth interposed, and asked, "You saw this man more than once?"
"Who? Hoskins? Yes, three times, and he always told the same story. He persisted in the main points. That the scene of the carrying off of the lady was his native shore, the coast of Cumberland; that the act immediately preceded Osborne's arrival in America, twelve years ago; and that she died miserably, the victim of her wretched lover. He knew Osborne immediately on his coming to New-York, when he was still suffering from the panic of such a tragedy, dreading the arrival of every vessel from England. At that time he concealed carefully from his new friend what he afterward, in the overflow of his heart, communicated so freely; and, in after times, he reminded him how, when an emissary of the police came from London to seek after some fraudulent defaulter, he, only hearing vaguely that there was search made for a criminal, hid himself for several days. That Osborne was privy to, was participator in a frightful tragedy, which, to my eyes, bears the aspect of murder, seems certain. I do not, I cannot doubt that my mother died then and there. How? the blood curdles to ask; but I would compass the earth to learn, to vindicate her name, to avenge her death."
Elizabeth felt Gerard's hand tremble and grow cold. He rose, and led the way into the drawing-room, while Lady Cecil whispered to her friend, "I am so very, very sorry! To go to America on such a story as this, a story which, if it bear any semblance to the truth, had better be for ever buried in oblivion. Dear Elizabeth, dissuade him, I entreat you."
"Do you think Mr. Neville so easy of persuasion, or that he ought to be?" replied her companion. "Certainly, all that he has heard is vague, coming, as it does, from a third, and an interested person. But his whole life has been devoted to the exculpation of his mother; and, if he believes that this tale affords a clew to lead to discovery, he is a son, and the nature that stirs within him may gift him with a clearer vision and a truer instinct than we can pretend to. Who can say but that a mysterious yet powerful hand is at last held out to guide him to the completion of his task? Oh, dear Lady Cecil, there are secrets in the moral, sentient world, of which we know nothing: such as brought Hamlet's father before his eyes; such as now may be stirring in your brother's heart, revealing to him the truth, almost without his own knowledge."
"You are as mad as he," said Lady Cecil, peevishly.
"I thought you a calm and reasonable being, who would co-operate with me in weaning Gerard from his wild fancies, and in reconciling him to the world as it is; but you indulge in metaphysical sallies and sublime flights, which my commonplace mind can only regard as a sort of intellectual will-o'-the-wisp. You betray, instead of assisting me. Peace be with Mrs. Neville, whether in her grave, or, in some obscure retreat, she grieves over the follies of her youth. She has been mourned for, as never mother was mourned before; but be reasonable, dear Elizabeth, and aid me in putting a stop to Gerard's insane career. You can, if you will; he reveres you—he would listen to you. Do not talk of mysterious hands, and Hamlet's ghost, and all that is to carry us away to Fairyland; but of the rational duties of life, and the proper aim of a man, to be useful to the living, and not spend the best years of his life in dreams of the dead."
"What can I say?" replied Elizabeth: "you will be angry, but I sympathize with Mr. Neville; and I cannot help saying, though you scoff at me, that I think that, in all he is doing, he is obeying the most sacred law of our nature—exculpating the innocent, and rendering duty to her who has a right, living or dead, to demand all his love."
"Well," said Lady Cecil, "I have managed very ill; I had meant to make you my ally, and have failed. I do not oppose Gerard in Sir Boyvill's open, angry manner; but it has been my endeavour throughout to mitigate his zeal, and to change him, from a wild sort of visionary, into a man of this world. He has talents, he is the heir to large possessions, his father would gladly assist any rational pursuit; he might make a figure in his country, he might be anything he pleased; and, instead of this, all is wasted on the unhappy dead. You do wrong to encourage him; think of what I say, and use your influence in a more beneficial manner."
During the following days, this sort of argument was several times renewed. Lady Cecil, who had heretofore opposed Neville covertly, with some show of sympathy, the fallacy of which he easily detected, and who had striven rather to lead him to forget, than to argue against his views, now openly opposed his voyage to America. Gerard heard in silence. He would not reply. Nothing she said carried the slightest weight with him, and he had long been accustomed to opposition, and to take his own way in spite of it. He was satisfied to do so now, without making an effort to convince her. Yet he was hurt, and turned gladly to Elizabeth for consolation. Her avowed and warm approval, her anxious sympathy, the certainty she expressed that in the end he would succeed, and that his enthusiasm and zeal were implanted in his heart for the express purpose of his mother's vindication, and that he would fail in every higher duty if he now held back; all this echoed so faithfully his own thoughts, that she already appeared a portion of his existence that he could never part from, the dear and promised reward of all his exertions.
In the ardour of her sympathy, Elizabeth wrote to Falkner. She had before written to tell him that she had seen again her friend of Marseilles; she wrote trembling, fearful of being recalled home; for she remembered the mysterious shrinking of her father from the name of Neville. His replies, however, only spoke of a short journey he was making, and a delay in his own joining her. Now again she wrote to speak of Neville's filial piety, his mother's death, her alleged dishonour, his sufferings and heroism; she dilated on this subject with fond approval, and expressed her wishes for his success in warm and eager terms; for many days she had no reply; a letter came at last—it was short. It besought her instantly to return. "This is the last act of duty, of affection, I shall ever ask," Falkner wrote: "comply without demurring, come at once; come, and hear the fatal secret that will divide us for ever. Come! I ask but for a day; the eternal future you may, you will, pass with your new friends."
Had the writing not been firm and clear, such words had seemed to portend her benefactor's death; wondering, struck by fear, inexpressibly anxious to comply with his wishes, pale and trembling, she besought Lady Cecil to arrange for her instant return. Gerard heard with sorrow, but without surprise; he knew, if her father demanded her presence, her first act would be obedience. But he grieved to see her suffer, and he began also to wonder by what strange coincidence they should both be doomed to sorrow, through the disasters of their parents.
Falkner had parted with his dear adopted child under a strong excitement of fear concerning her health. The change of air and scene restored her so speedily, that his anxieties were of short duration. He was, however, in no hurry to rejoin her, as he was taught to consider a temporary separation from him as important to her convalescence.
For the first time, after many years, Falkner was alone. True, he was so in Greece; but there he had an object. In Greece, also, it is true that he had dwelt on the past, writing even a narrative of his actions, and that remorse sat heavy at his heart, while he pursued this task. Yet he went to Greece to assist in a glorious cause, and to redeem his name from the obloquy his confession would throw on it, by his gallantry and death. There was something animating in these reflections. Then also disease had not attacked him, nor pain made him its prey—his sensations were healthful—and if his reflections were melancholy and self-condemning, yet they were attended by grandeur, and even by sublimity, the result of the danger that surrounded him, and the courage with which he met it.
Now he was left alone—broken in health—dashed in spirit; consenting to live—wishing to live for Elizabeth's sake—yet haunted still by one pale ghost, and the knowledge that his bosom contained a secret which, if divulged, would acquire for him universal detestation. He did not fear discovery; but little do they know the human heart who are not aware of the throes of shame and anguish that attend the knowledge that we are in reality a cheat, that we disguise our own real selves, and that truth is our worst enemy. Left to himself, Falkner thought of these things with bitterness; he loathed the burden that sat upon his soul; he longed to cast it off; yet, when he thought of Elizabeth; her devoted affection and earnest entreaties, he was again a coward; how could he consent to give her up, and plant a dagger in her heart!
There was but one cure to the irritation that his spirit endured, which was—to take refuge in her society; and he was about to join her, when a letter came, speaking of Gerard Neville—the same wild boy they had seen at Baden—the kind friend of Marseilles, still melancholy, still stricken by adversity; but endowed with a thousand qualities to attract love and admiration: full of sentiment and poetry—kind and tender as woman—resolute and independent as a man. Elizabeth said little, remembering Falkner's previous restriction upon his name—but she considered it her duty to mention him to her benefactor; and that being her duty to him, it became another to her new friend to assert his excellence, lest by some chance Falkner had mistaken, and attributed qualities that did not belong to him.
Falkner's thoughts became busy on this with new ideas. It was at once pleasing and painful to hear of the virtues of Gerard Neville. The pleasure was derived from the better portion of human nature—the pain from the worst; a lurking envy, and dislike to excellence derived in any degree from one he hated, and with such sentiment he regarded the father of Gerard. Still he was the son of the angel he worshipped and had destroyed; she had loved her child to adoration, and to know that he grew up all she would have wished would console her wandering, unappeased spirit. He remembered his likeness to her, and that softened him even more. Yet he thought of the past—and what he had done; and the very idea of her son lamenting for ever his lost mother filled him with renewed and racking remorse.
That Elizabeth should now for the third time be thrown in his way, was strange, and his first impulse was to recall her. It was well that Gerard should be noble-minded, endowed with talent, a rare and exalted being—but that she should be brought into near contact with him was evil: between Falkner and Gerard Neville there existed a gulf unfathomable, horrific, deadly; and any friendship between him and his adopted child must cause disunion between her and Falkner. He had suffered much, but this last blow, a cause for disuniting them, would tax his fortitude too much.
Yet thus it was to be taxed. He received a letter from Lady Cecil, of which Elizabeth was ignorant. Its ostensible object was to give good tidings of her fair guest's health, and to renew her invitation to him. But there was a covert meaning which Falkner detected. Lady Cecil, though too young to be an inveterate matchmaker, yet conceived and cherished the idea of the marriage of Neville and Elizabeth. In common parlance, Gerard might look higher; but so also might Elizabeth, apparently the only daughter and heiress of a man of good birth and easy fortune. But this went for little with Lady Cecil; Gerard's peculiar disposition—his devotion to his dead mother—his distaste to all society—the coldness he had hitherto manifested to feminine attractions, made the choice of a wife difficult for him. Elizabeth's heroic and congenial character; her total inexperience in the world, and readiness to sympathize with sentiments which, to the ordinary class of women, would appear extravagant and foolish; all this suited them for each other. Lady Cecil saw them together, and felt that intimacy would produce love. She was delighted; but thinking it right that the father should have a voice, she wrote to Falkner, scarcely alluding to these things, but with a delicate tact that enabled her to convey her meaning, and Falkner, jumping at once to the conclusion, saw that his child was lost to him for ever.
There arose from this idea a convulsion of feeling, that shook him as an earthquake shakes the firm land, making the most stable edifices totter. A chill horror ran through his veins, a cold dew broke out on his forehead; it was unnatural—it was fatal—it must bring on all their heads tenfold ruin.
Yet wherefore? Elizabeth was no child of his—Elizabeth Falkner could never wed Gerard Neville—but between him and Elizabeth Raby there existed no obstacle. Nay, how better could he repay the injury he had done him in depriving him of his mother, than by bestowing on him a creature, perhaps more perfect, to be his solace and delight to the end of his life? So must it be—here Falkner's punishment would begin; to exile himself for ever from her, who was the child of his heart, the prop of his existence. It was dreadful to think of, but it must be done.
And how was the sacrifice to be fulfilled? by restoring Elizabeth to her father's family, and then withdrawing himself to a distant land. He need not add to this the confession of his crime. No! thus should he compensate to Gerard for the injury done him; and burning his papers, leaving still in mystery the unknown past, die, without its ever being known to Elizabeth that he was the cause of her husband's sorrows. It was travelling fast, to arrange this future for all three; but there are moments when the future, with all its contingences and possibilities, becomes glaringly distinct to our foreseeing eye; and we act as if that was, which we believe must be. He would become a soldier once again—and the boon of death would not be for ever denied to him.
To restore Elizabeth to her family was at any rate but doing her a long-withheld justice. The child of honour and faithful affection—who bore a proud name—whose loveliness of person and mind would make her a welcome treasure in any family; she, despite her generous sacrifices, should follow his broken fortunes no longer. If the notion of her marrying Neville were a mere dream, still to give back to her name and station, was a benefit which it was unjust any longer to withhold; nor should it be a question between them. They were now divided, so should they remain. He would reveal her existence to her family, claim their protection, and then withdraw himself; while she, occupied by a new and engrossing sentiment, would easily get reconciled to his absence.
The first step he took in furtherance of this new resolution, was to make inquiries concerning the present state of Elizabeth's family—of which hitherto he knew no more than what he gathered from her mother's unfinished letter, and this was limited to their being a wealthy Catholic family, proud of their ancestry, and devoted to their faith. Through his solicitor he gained intelligence of their exact situation. He heard that there was a family of that name in Northumberland; it was Roman Catholic, and exceedingly rich. The present head of the family was an old man; he had long been a widower; left with a family of six sons. The eldest had married early, and was dead, leaving his widow with four daughters and one son, yet a child, who was the heir of the family honours and estates, and resided with his mother, for the most part, at the mansion of his grandfather. Of the remaining sons little account could be gained. It was the family custom to concentrate all its prosperity and wealth on the head of the eldest son; and the younger, precluded by their religion, at that time, from advancement in their own country, entered foreign service. One only had exempted himself from the common lot, and become an outcast, and, in the eyes of his family, a reprobate. Edwin Raby had apostatized from the Catholic faith; he had married a portionless girl of inferior birth, and entered the profession of the law. His parents looked with indignation on the dishonour entailed on their name through his falling off; but his death relieved their terrors—he died, leaving a widow and an infant daughter. As the marriage had never been acknowledged, and female offspring were held supernumerary, and an encumbrance in the Raby family, they had refused to receive her, and never heard of her more; she was, it was conjectured, living in obscurity among her own relations. Falkner at once detected the truth. The despised, deserted widow had died in her youth; and the daughter of Edwin Raby was the child of his adoption. On this information Falkner regulated his conduct; and finding that Elizabeth's grandfather, old Oswi Raby, resided habitually at his seat in the north of England, he—his health now restored sufficiently to make the journey without inconvenience—set out for Northumberland, to communicate the existence, and claim his acknowledgment, of his granddaughter.
There are periods in our lives when we seem to run away from ourselves and our afflictions; to commence a new course of existence, upon fresh ground, towards a happier goal. Sometimes, on the contrary, the stream of life doubles—runs back to old scenes, and we are constrained to linger amid the desolation we had hoped to leave far behind. Thus was it with Falkner; the past clung to him inextricably. What had he to do with those who had suffered through his misdeed? He had fled from them—he had traversed a quarter of the earth—he had placed a series of years between them; but there he was again—in the same spot—the same forms before him—the same names sounding in his ears—the effects of his actions impending darkly and portentously over him; seeing no escape but by casting away the only treasure of his life—his adopted child—and becoming again a solitary, miserable wanderer.
No man ever suffered more keenly than Falkner the stings of remorse; no man ever resolved more firmly to meet the consequences of his actions systematically, and without outward flinching. It was perseverance to one goal that had occasioned all his sin and wo; it followed him in his repentance; and though misery set a visible mark on his brow, he did not hesitate nor delay. The journey to Northumberland was long, for he could only proceed by short stages; and all the time miserable reflection doubled every mile, and stretched each hour into twice its duration. He was alone. To look back was wretchedness—to think of Elizabeth was no solace; hereafter they were to be divided—hereafter no voice of love or gentle caress would chase the darkness from his brow—he was to be for ever alone.
At length he arrived at his destination, and reached the entrance to Belleforest. The mansion, a fine old Gothic building, adorned by the ruins of an ancient abbey, was in itself venerable and extensive, and surrounded by a princely demesne. This was the residence of Elizabeth's ancestors—of her nearest relations. Here her childhood would have been spent—under these venerable oaks—within these ancestral walls. Falkner was glad to think that, in being forced to withdraw from her his own protection, she would take a higher station, and in the world's eye become more on an equality with Gerard Neville. Everything around denoted grandeur and wealth; the very circumstance that the family adhered to the ancient faith of the land—to a form of worship which, though evil in its effects on the human mind, is to the eye imposing and magnificent, shed a greater lustre round the place. On inquiry, Falkner heard that the old gentleman was at Belleforest; indeed, he never quitted it; but that his daughter-in-law, with her family, were in the south of England. Mr. Raby was very accessible; on asking for him, Falkner was instantly ushered in.
He entered a library of vast dimensions, and fitted up with a sort of heavy splendour; very imposing, but very sombre. The high windows, painted ceiling, and massy furniture bespoke an oldfashioned, but almost regal taste. Falkner, for a moment, thought himself alone, when a slight noise attracted his attention to a diminutive and very white old gentleman, who advanced towards him. The mansion looked built for a giant race; and Falkner, expecting the majesty of size, could hardly contract his view to the slender and insignificant figure of the present possessor. Oswi Raby looked shrivelled, not so much by age as the narrowness of his mind; to whose dimensions his outward figure had contracted itself. His face was pale and thin; his light blue eyes grown dim; you might have thought that he was drying up and vanishing from the earth by degrees. Contrasted with this slight shadow of a man, was a mind that saw the whole world almost concentrated in himself. He, Oswi Raby, he, head of the oldest family in England, was first of created beings. Without being assuming in manner, he was self-important in heart; and there was an obstinacy and an incapacity to understand that anything was of consequence except himself, or rather, except the house he represented, that gave extreme repulsion to his manners.
It is always awkward to disclose an errand such as Falkner's; it was only by plunging at once into it, and warming himself by his own words, that he contrived to throw grace round his subject. A cloud gathered over the old man's features; he grew whiter, and his thin lips closed, as if they had never opened except with a refusal.
"You speak of very painful circumstances," he said; "I have sometimes feared that I should be intruded upon in behalf of this person; yet, after so many years, there is less pretence than ever for encroaching upon an injured family. Edwin himself broke the tie. He was rebellious and apostate. He had talents, and might have distinguished himself to his honour; he preferred irreparable disgrace. He abandoned the religion which we consider as the most precious part of our inheritance; and he added imprudence to guilt, by, he being himself unprovided for, marrying a portionless, low-born girl. He never hoped for my forgiveness; he never even asked it. His death—it is hard for a father to feel thus—but his death was a relief. We were applied to by his widow; but with her we could have nothing to do. She was the partner of his rebellion—nay, we looked upon her as its primal cause. I was willing to take charge of my grandchild, if delivered entirely up to me. She did not even think proper to reply to the letter making this concession. I had, indeed, come to the determination of continuing to her a portion of the allowance I made to my son, despite his disobedience; but from that time to this no tidings of either mother or daughter have reached us."
"Death must bear the blame of that negligence," said Falkner, mastering his rising disgust. "Mrs. Raby was hurried to the grave but a few months after your son's death, the victim of her devoted affection to her husband. Their innocent daughter was left among strangers, who did not know to whom to apply. She, at least, is free from all fault, and has every claim on her father's family."
"She is nothing, and has no claim," interrupted Mr. Raby, peevishly, "beyond a bare maintenance, even if she be the person you represent. I beg your pardon, sir, but you may be deceived yourself on this subject; but taking it for granted that this young person is the daughter of my son, what is she to me?"
"A granddaughter is a relation," Falkner began; "a near and dear one—"
"Under such circumstances," interrupted Mr. Raby, "under the circumstances of a marriage to which I gave no consent, and her being brought up at a distance from us all, I should rather call her a connexion than a relation. We cannot look with favour on the child of an apostate; educated in a faith which we consider pernicious. I am an oldfashioned man, accustomed only to the society of those whose feelings coincide with mine; and I must apologize, sir, if I say anything to shock you; but the truth is self-evident, a child of a discarded son may have a slender claim for support, none for favour or countenance. This young person has no right to raise her eyes to us; she must regulate her expectations by the condition of her mother, who was a sort of servant, a humble companion or governess, in the house of Mrs. Neville of Dromore—"
Falkner grew pale at the name, but, commanding himself, replied, "I believe she was a friend of that lady! I have said I was unacquainted with the parents of Miss Raby; I found her an orphan, subsisting on precarious charity. Her few years—her forlorn situation—her beauty and sweetness, claimed my compassion—I adopted her—"
"And would now throw her off," again interrupted the ill-tempered old man. "Had you restored her to us in her childhood—had she been brought up in our religion among us—she would have shared this home with her cousins. As it is, you must yourself be aware that it will be impossible to admit, as an inmate, a stranger—a person ignorant of our peculiar systems—an alien from our religion. Mrs. Raby would never consent to it; and I would on no account annoy her who, as the mother and guardian of my heir, merits every deference. I will, however, consult with her, and with the gentleman who has the conduct of my affairs; and as you wish to get rid of an embarrassment, which, pardon me if I say you entirely brought on yourself, we will do what we judge due to the honour of the family; but I cannot hold out any hopes beyond a maintenance—unless this young person, whom I should then regard as my granddaughter, felt a vocation for a religion, out of whose pale I will never acknowledge a relation."
At every word Falkner grew more angry. He always repressed any manifestation of passion, and only grew pale, and spoke in a lower, calmer voice. There was a pause; he glanced at the white hair and attenuated form of the old man, so to acquire a sufficient portion of forbearance, and then replied: "It is enough—forget this visit; you shall never hear again of the existence of your outraged grandchild. Could you for a moment comprehend her worth, you might feel regret at casting from you one whose qualities render her the admiration of all who know her. Some day, when the infirmities of age increase upon you, you may remember that you might have had a being near, the most compassionate and kind that breathes. If ever you feel the want of an affectionate hand to smooth your pillow, you may remember that you have shut your heart to one who would have been a daily blessing. I do not wish to disembarrass myself of Miss Raby—Miss Falkner, rather, let me call her; she has borne my name as my daughter for many years, and shall continue to retain it, together with my paternal guardianship, while I live. I have the honour to wish you a good-morning."
Falkner hastily departed; and, as he threw himself on his horse, and at a quick pace traversed the long avenues of Belleforest, he felt that boiling of the blood, that inexpressible bursting and tumult of the heart, that accompanies fierce indignation and disdain. A vehement desire to pour out the cataract of his contempt and anger on the offender, was mingled with redoubled tenderness for Elizabeth, with renewed gratitude for all he owed her, and a yearning, heart-warming desire to take her again to the shelter of his love, from whence she should never more depart.
Falkner's mind had undergone a total change; he had gone to Belleforest, believing it to be his duty to restore to its possessors a dearer treasure than any held by them; he left it, resolved never to part from his adopted child. "Get rid of an embarrassment!" he repeated to himself; "get rid of Elizabeth, of tender affection, truth, and fidelity! of the heart's fondest ties, my soul's only solace! How often has my life been saved and cheered by her only! And when I would sacrifice blessings of which I hold myself unworthy, I hear the noblest and most generous being in the world degraded by the vulgar, sordid prejudices of that narrow-minded bigot! How paltry seems the pomp of wealth, or the majesty of these ancient woods, when it is recollected that they are lorded over by such a thing as that!"
Falkner's reflections were all painful; his heavily-burdened conscience weighed him to the earth. He felt that there was justice in a part of Mr. Raby's representations; that if Elizabeth had been brought up under his care, in a religion which, because it was persecuted, was the more valuable in their eyes; participating in their prejudices, and endeared to them by habit, she would have had claims, which, as she was, unseen, unknown, and totally disjoined from them in opinions and feelings, she could never possess. He was the cause of this, having, in her infancy, chosen to take her to himself, to link his desolate fate to her brighter one; and now he could only repent for her sake; yet, for her sake, he did repent, when, looking forward, he thought of the growing attachment between her and the son of his victim.
What could he do? recall her? forbid her again to see Gerard Neville? Unexplained commands are ever unjust, and had any strong feeling sprung up in either of their hearts, they could not be obeyed. Should he tell her all, and throw himself on her mercy? He would thus inflict deep, irreparable pangs, and, besides, place her in a painful situation, where duty would struggle with inclination; and pride and affection both made it detestable to him to create such a combat in her heart, and cause her to feel pangs and make sacrifices for him. What other part was there to take? to remain neuter? let events take their course? If it ended as he foresaw, when a marriage was mentioned, he could reveal her real birth. Married to Gerard Neville, her relations would gladly acknowledge her, and then he could withdraw for ever. He should have much to endure meanwhile; to hear a name perpetually repeated that thrilled to the very marrow of his bones; perhaps to see the husband and son of her he had destroyed: he felt sick at heart at such a thought; he put it aside. It was not to-day, it could not be to-morrow, that he should be called upon to encounter these evils; meanwhile, he would shut his eyes upon them.
Returning homeward, he felt impelled to prolong his tour, he visited some of the lakes of Westmoreland, and the mountain scenery of Derbyshire. The thought of return was painful, so he lingered on the way, and wrote for his letters to be forwarded to him. He had been some weeks without receiving any from Elizabeth, and he felt extreme impatience again to be blessed with the sight of her handwriting—he felt how passionately he loved her—how to part from her was to part from every joy of life; he called himself her father—his heart acknowledged the tie in every pulsation; no father ever worshipped a child so fervently; her voice, her smile—and dear loving eyes, where were they?—they were far, but here was something—a little packet of letters, that must for the present stand in lieu of the dearer blessing of her presence. He looked at the papers with delight—he pressed them to his lips—he delayed to open them, as if he did not deserve the joy they would communicate—as if its excess would overpower him. "I purpose parting from her," he thought; "but still she is mine, mine when she traced those lines—mine as I read the expressions of her affection; there are hours of delight garnered for me in those little sealed talismans that nothing future or past can tarnish, and yet the name of Neville will be there!" The thought brought a cold chill with it, and he opened the letters hastily to know the worst.
Elizabeth had half forgotten the pain with which Falkner had at one time shrunk from a name become so dear to her; when she wrote, her heart was full of Gerard's story—and, besides, she had had letters from her father speaking of him with kindness, so that she indulged herself by alluding to it—to the disappearance of his mother and Gerard's misery; the trial—the brutality of Sir Boyvill; and last, to the resolution formed in childhood, brooded over through youth, now acted upon, to discover his mother's destroyer. "Nor is it," she wrote, "any vulgar feeling of vengeance that influences him—but the purest and noblest motives. She is stigmatized as unworthy—he would vindicate her fame. When I hear the surmises, the accusations cast on her, I feel with him. To hear a beloved parent accused of guilt, must indeed be the most bitter wo; to believe her innocent, and to prove her such, the only alleviation. God grant that he may succeed!—and though I wish no ill to any human being, yet rather may the height of evil fall on the head of the true criminal, than continue to cloud the days of a being whose soul is moulded in sensibility and honour!"
"Thus do you pray, heedless Elizabeth! May the true criminal feel the height of evil; may he—whom you have saved from death—endure tortures compared to which a thousand deaths were nothing! Be it so! you shall have your wish!"
Impetuous as fire, Falkner did not pause: something, some emotion devouring as fire, was lighted up in his heart—there must be no delay!—never had he seen the effects of his crime in so vivid a light; avoiding the name of Neville, he had never heard that of his victim coupled with shame—she was unfortunate, but he persuaded himself that she was not thought guilty; dear injured saint! had then her sacred name been bandied about by the vulgar—she pronounced unworthy by the judges of her acts—ignominy heaped upon the grave he had dug for her? Was her beloved son the victim of his belief in her goodness? Had his youthful life been blighted by his cowardly concealments? Oh, rather a thousand deaths than such a weight of sin upon his soul! He would declare all; offer his life in expiation—what more could be demanded?
And again—this might be thought a more sordid motive; and yet it was not—Gerard was vowed to the discovery of the true criminal; he would discover him—earth would render up her secrets, Heaven lead the son to the very point—by slow degrees his crime would be unveiled—Elizabeth called upon to doubt and to believe. His vehement disposition was not calculated to bear the slow process of such discoveries; he would meet them, avow all—let the worst fall on him: it was happiness to know and feel the worst.
Lost for ever, he would deliver himself up to reprobation and the punishment of his guilt. Too long he had delayed—now all his motives for concealment melted away like snow overspread by volcanic fire. Fierce, hurrying destiny seized him by the hair of his head—crying aloud, "Murderer, offer up thy blood—shade of Alithea, take thy victim!"
He wrote instantly to Elizabeth to meet him at their home at Wimbledon, and proceeded thither himself. Unfortunately, the tumult of his thoughts acted on his health; after he had proceeded a few miles, he was taken ill—for three days he was confined to his bed, in a high fever. He thought he was about to die—his secret untold. Copious bleeding, however, subdued the violence of the attack—and weak and faint, he, despite his physician's advice, proceeded homeward; weak and faint, an altered man—life had no charms, no calls, but one duty. Hitherto he had lived in contempt of the chain of effects which ever links pain to evil and of the Providence which will not let the innocent be for ever traduced. It had fallen on him; now his punishment had begun, not as he, in the happier vehemence of passion, had determined, not by sudden, self-inflicted, or glorious death—but the slow grinding of the iron wheels of destiny, as they passed over him, crushing him in the dust.
Yet his heart, despite its sufferings, warmed with something like pleasure when, after a tedious journey of three days, he drew near his home, where he hoped to find Elizabeth. He had misgivings; he had asked her to return, but she might have written to request a delay—no! she was there; she had been there two days, anxiously expecting him. It is so sweet a thing to hear the voice of one we love welcoming us on our return home! It seems to assure us of a double existence; not only in our own identity—which we bear perpetually about with us—but in the heart we leave behind, which has thought of us—lived for us, and now beats with warm pleasure on beholding the expected one. On the whole earth Falkner loved none but Elizabeth. He hated himself; the past—the present—the future, as they appertained to him, were all detestable; remorse, grief, and loathsome anticipation made up the sum of feelings with which he regarded them: but here, bright and beautiful; without taint; all affection and innocence—a monument of his own good feelings, a lasting rock to which to moor his every hope, stood before him the child of his adoption; his heart felt bursting when he thought of all she was to him.
Yet a doubt entered to mar his satisfaction—was she changed? If love had insinuated itself into her heart, he was rejected; at least the plenteous, abundant fountain, that gave from its own source, would be changed to the still waters that neither received increase nor bestowed any overflowing. Worse than this—she loved Gerard Neville, the son of his victim, he whose life was devastated by him, who would regard him with abhorrence. He would teach Elizabeth to partake this feeling. The blood stood chilled in Falkner's heart when he thought of thus losing the only being he loved on earth.
He mastered these feelings when he saw her. The first moment, indeed, when she flew to his arms, and expressed with eager fondness her delight in seeing him again, was all happiness. She perceived the traces of suffering on his brow, and chided herself for having remained away so long; she promised never to absent herself thus again. Every remembered look and tone of her dear face and voice, now brought palpably before him, was a medicine to Falkner. He repressed his uneasiness, he banished his fears; for a few hours he made happiness his own again.
The evening was passed in calm and cheering conversation. No word was said of the friends whom Elizabeth had left. She had forgotten them, during the first few hours she spent with her father; and when she did allude to her visit, Falkner said, "We will talk of these things to-morrow; to-night let us only think of ourselves." Elizabeth felt a little mortified; the past weeks, the fortunes of her friends, and the sentiments they excited, had become a part of herself; and she was pained that so much of disjunction existed between her and Falkner, as to make that which was so vivid and present to her vacant of interest to him; but she checked her disappointment: soon he would know her new friend, sympathize in his devotion towards his injured mother, enter as warmly as she did into the result of his endeavours for her exculpation. Meanwhile she yielded to his wish, and they talked of scenes and countries they had visited together, and all the feelings and opinions engendered by the past; as they were wont to do in days gone by, before a stranger influence had disturbed a world in which they lived for each other only—father and daughter—without an interest beyond.
Nothing could be more pure and entire than their affection, and there was between them that mingling of hearts which words cannot describe; but which, whenever it is experienced, in whatever relation in life, is unalloyed happiness. There was a total absence of disguise, of covert censure, of mutual diffidence; perfect confidence gave rise to the fearless utterance of every idea, and there was a repose, and yet an enjoyment in the sense of sympathy and truth, which filled and satisfied. Falkner was surprised at the balmy sense of joy that, despite everything, stole over him; and he kissed and blessed his child, as she retired for the night, with more grateful affection, a fuller sense of her merits, and a more fervent desire of preserving her always near him, than he had ever before been conscious of experiencing.
Elizabeth rose on the following morning, her bosom glowing with a sensation of acknowledged happiness. So much of young love brooded in her heart, as quickened its pulsations, as gave lightness and joy to her thoughts. She had no doubts, nor fears, nor even hopes: she was not aware that love was the real cause of the grateful sense of happiness, with which she avowed, to Heaven and herself, that all was peace. She was glad to be reunited to Falkner, for whom she felt an attachment at once so respectful, and yet, on account of his illness and melancholy, so watchful and tender, as never allowed her to be wholly free from solicitude when absent from him. Also she expected on that morning to see Gerard Neville. When Falkner's letter came to hasten her departure from Oakly, she felt grieved at the recall, at the moment when she was expecting him to join her, so to fill up the measure of her enjoyments; with all this, she was eager to obey, and anxious to be with him again. Lady Cecil deputed Miss Jervis to accompany her. On the very morning of their departure, Neville asked for a seat in the carriage; they travelled to town together; and when they separated, Neville told her of his intention of immediately securing a passage to America, and since then had written a note to mention that he should ride over to Wimbledon on that morning.
The deep interest that Elizabeth took in his enterprise made her solicitous to know whether he had procured any further information; but her paramount desire was to introduce him to Falkner, to inspire him with her sentiments of friendship, and to see two persons whom she considered superior to the rest of the world bound to each other by a mutual attachment; she wanted to impart to her father a pity for Alithea's wrongs, and an admiration for her devoted son. She walked in the shrubbery before breakfast, enjoying nature with the enthusiasm of love; she gathered the last roses of the departing season, and mingling them with a few carnations, hung, with a new sense of rapture, over these fairest children of nature; for it is the property of love to enhance all our enjoyments, "to paint the lily, and add a perfume to the rose." When she returned to the house, she was told that Falkner still slept, and begged not to be disturbed. She breakfasted, therefore, by herself, sitting by the open casement, and looking on the waving trees, her flowers shedding a sweet atmosphere around; sometimes turning to her open book, where she read of